


buried the day

by blackkat



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [35]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Edo Tensei, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non-graphic child death, more or less
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 08:52:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8395330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Tobirama comes to on a field heavy with the scent of blood, to a rout of shinobi in unfamiliar uniforms but sporting familiar hitai-ate. There's a whisper in his head, paradise denied, but death is in front of him and he can't waste time on regrets.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For an anon prompt on Tumblr. I could hardly let Orochimaru's birthday pass without torturing him a little, seeing as he's one of my faves. ^-^
> 
> Title from Burnt Norton by TS Eliot: 'Time and the bell have buried the day/The black cloud carries the sun away.'

He comes to on a field heavy with the scent of blood, to a rout of shinobi in unfamiliar uniforms but sporting familiar hitai-ate. One step and he staggers, gravity re-exerting itself in a sudden rush. There's a whisper in his head, paradise denied, but death is in front of him and he can't waste time on regrets.

Another step, steady this time, and he looks down. There's a body stretched at his feet, one bloody hand still pressed against the lines of the seal carved into the ground. A young man, barely into his twenties, streaked with blood. His hair is a river of midnight across the torn earth, his skin pale. There are purple shadows around his eyes, clan markings and sleep-bruises in equal measure, and even in unconsciousness his expression is caught between fury, determination, and horror.

For half a moment, Tobirama considers himself. There's no pull of compulsion, no blankness to his thoughts. This is Edo Tensei, but—no control seal. No direction. Just a shinobi’s last, desperate attempt to turn the tide of a battle that’s closer to a massacre. Too much chakra used, Tobirama assumes, taxing already depleted reserves—he experienced it himself, the first time he attempted Edo Tensei.

“Sensei!” a child’s voice cries, choked and frantic, and Tobirama turns. A genin boy with sandy hair and a Konoha hitai-ate, hemmed in by shinobi wearing Iwa’s symbol. There are bodies beside him, two more children, and for a blinding moment all Tobirama can think of is Itama, Kawarama, falling at the hands of Uchiha squads with no goals but to hunt down children at their most vulnerable. He moves before he can consider the implications, a blur of motion as he draws his sword and leaps. Blood splatters the ground as bodies collapse, boneless in death, but the boy doesn’t even pause. He leaps past them, heading for Tobirama’s summoner at a run, and drops to his knees beside him.

Following more slowly, Tobirama wipes off his sword and re-sheaths it. “He’s still alive,” he tells the boy. “But on the edge of chakra exhaustion. Is the village close?”

The genin pulls in a shaky breath, squares his shoulders, shakes his head. One hand comes up to fist around the pendant he’s wearing, and he says as steadily as he’s able, “There's an outpost a few miles away. Sensei—can Orochimaru-sensei make it there?”

Tobirama crouches down, turning his summoner over carefully. His uniform is soaked with blood, tattered and scorched, but he doesn’t look to be in immediate danger. “He will,” he confirms. The violet clan markings catch his eye again, and this time there's space enough for the thought to finish. “One of the Yashagorō Clan? No wonder he was able to complete my jutsu. I'm glad to see they did join Konoha after all.”

The relief on the boy’s face is eclipsed by confusion. “Yashagorō?” he repeats, and then shakes his head. “Orochimaru-sensei doesn’t talk about his family. He’s the only one left.”

One of the greatest tragedies is the loss of the smaller clans in wartime, Tobirama thinks regretfully, sliding his arms under Orochimaru’s limp body and lifting him carefully. He doesn’t stir, and only the faint rise and fall of his chest gives any hint at life. Tobirama weighs the strength granted by Edo Tensei against the heft of his sword just moments ago, and decides that for a man his age and height, Orochimaru is far too thin. Between that and the weariness all but ingrained into his face, and the boy’s mention of an outpost, Tobirama can guess that whatever conflict resulted in this ambush, it’s ongoing and expansive. Another war, most likely, and it curls like regret in his gut.

The boy scrambles about for a moment, gather up a sword, a set of scrolls, and a tattered flak jacket, and then hurries back to Tobirama’s side. “This way,” he urges, turning south, and with a moment’s concentration Tobirama can feel the tight cluster of chakra signals in the distance.

“Your name?” he asks, resettling Orochimaru in his arms. The man’s head rests against his shoulder, dark hair half-obscuring his features, and Tobirama keeps a careful eye on his chakra levels. Edo Tensei strains even him, after all—the Yashagorō Clan are known for cleverness, not chakra reserves, and Tobirama is not a healer. Better to take too much care, rather than too little.

“Senju Nawaki,” the boy answers, and manages a shaky smile up at Tobirama. “You’re my granduncle.”

So Tsunade has a little brother. Tobirama is glad; she always seemed like she’d grow in a wonderful, caring woman. “It’s an honor to meet you,” he says. “Tsunade is well?”

Nawaki glances back at the battlefield, eyes lingering on the corpses of his teammates, but nods. “She’s still in the village,” he says. “Sarutobi-sama put her on leave because she was wearing herself out.”

If Hiruzen is still Hokage, it likely hasn’t been all that many years since Tobirama’s death. He wonders how much has changed, and just what has stayed the same. Too many things, if Konoha is caught up in another war.

Orochimaru stirs slightly in his grip, expression twisting as if he’s fighting sleep. One blistered hand curls, earning a soft sound of pain, and his eyes slit open, showing an edge of eerie gold. “Nawaki,” he manages, though his voice is rough and scratchy.

“I'm here, sensei,” Nawaki says immediately, ducking in front of Tobirama and rising on his toes to study his teacher. “Are you okay? Can I help?”

There's a momentary pause full of confusion, and it’s easy to see the jumbled thoughts Orochimaru can't quite straighten out in his current state. “Eiji?” he asks, with an edge of desperation. “Tama?”

Nawaki bites his lip and doesn’t answer.

Orochimaru doesn’t make a sound, just turns his head into Tobirama’s shoulder and lets his eyes fall shut.

Tobirama glances down at him, then looks away. There’s wetness on Orochimaru’s cheeks that runs like blood and hurts just as much, but isn’t. He may not be able to offer much by way of privacy, but what little he can give he will.

“Only a little further,” Nawaki says quietly, fervently, and the look on his face is one Tobirama is all too familiar with. He’s seen it in the mirror, seen it in his brothers, in every child who’s ever faced the staggering, overwhelming loss of a shinobi’s life too early.

Tobirama looks away from that as well, and regrets.


End file.
